


Winter's Gambit

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Mild Gore, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-02-27 20:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18746638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: When the Battle for the Dawn turns against them, Theon and Sansa do what they can.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was actually pretty alright with Theon's death. Although I would have liked to have seen him come to terms with his trauma in addition to his past actions, I was glad to see him go out on his own terms and under his own agency. 
> 
> This is more of a "narrative" fix-it, with some beats I would have liked to have seen from Theon, Sansa, and Bran's storylines, but which were never realistically going to happen. So...indulgent fanfic away!

The screaming was closer now, and Theon knew the dead had breached the walls. He reached for his first arrow and nodded to his men, who, grim-faced, followed his lead. They were under no delusions; they would likely meet the same fate as the last men who’d followed him to Winterfell. Slaughtered far from the sea.

His hand was shockingly steady as he nocked the arrow. Despite his missing fingers, he drew the bowstring taut with familiar, practiced ease. It came back to him as surely as swimming. It wasn’t thought that moved his body, but memory.

He pulled and waited for the first wight. Could hear their growling, the screams of men up and down the wall. And his own blood pounding in his ears. _You won’t survive this night_. He pushed that thought away, because he already knew it. Had known it the moment he volunteered to protect Bran. It didn’t matter that he survived or not, just as long as _somebody_ did.

His mind wandered to Sansa. He had last seen her on the battlements as he’d wheeled Bran to the Godswood. Their eyes had met. She looked beautiful, dressed in black furs, red hair braided like her mother’s. She was as commanding as Lady Stark had ever been, but with a distinct warmth to her that Catelyn had lacked. A warmth that came from being of the North, from being among her people. If he failed Bran tonight, he would fail her as well. Fail all of the living.

He shook his head. It was dangerous to let his mind wander. He couldn’t think these thoughts now.

A sharp breath drew his attention swiftly around. Bran had come back to himself, his eyes no longer glassy and white. But he had been _somewhere_ , because he slumped forward in his chair as though he had just run a great distance. In an instant, Theon was by his side. “Bran, what—?”

“He’s not coming,” Bran said, and quickly his stony visage was back. “The Night King.”

“He’s not coming?” Theon repeated. “How do you know?”

Bran stared unblinking at him. “I know.”

Somewhere far off—but not far off enough—the growls of inhuman things drew nearer, and the screams of men grew fainter.

“Where is he then?” Theon persisted. Maybe they could still…

Bran turned his head, staring out over the walls of the Godswood. “Going south. With greater numbers.”

_Greater_ numbers? The greater numbers weren’t _here_? How was that possible?

“Shit,” Theon hissed. “Then we…?”

“We can’t win,” Bran finished for him, as calmly as if he were commenting on the weather.

“Shit,” Theon repeated. And for a moment he didn’t know what to do. Their plan…it hinged on the Night King showing himself. Without that, they were sheep corralled in a pen, waiting to be picked off. He stood and raised his voice. “We need to retreat!”

“You want us to _retreat_?” one of his men cried incredulously.

“There’s no point dying here anymore.”

“So we die in the crypts, with the women and children?”

Theon’s mind raced. It all felt so eerily familiar, being trapped behind these very stone walls, knowing the enemy was circling around, closing off the noose. No escape. No…

“No,” he said, as his mind snapped to a moment. A fireplace, and Maester Luwen begging him to flee. “The tunnels.”

“The tunnels?”

“Under the castle,” Bran explained dully. “Almost as old as the crypts themselves. They were built so the Lord of Winterfell could flee in the event of a siege.”

In the event of a siege by a living army. Would the tunnels take them far enough away from the dead? Was there anywhere, now, that was far enough away from the dead? They would have to keep running, without horses, without carriages or wagons, which they could not take with them. How many could they even evacuate while their meager remaining forces held off the onslaught of wights?

It didn’t matter. Even one survivor was better than none. One less body to add to the army of the dead. _It’s only important that somebody survives_ , he reminded himself. And as a great gout of flame went up along the wall, silhouetting the shape of the dragons overhead, Theon resolved himself anew.

“We need to hurry. You,” he snapped to the nearest Ironborn, a broad-shouldered man who looked up for the task. “Carry Lord Stark. Leave the chair.” It would only hinder them. He gripped his bow. “We’ll cover you.”

Over the course of history, the Ironborn’s fighting strategy had sometimes been described as “suicidal” in nature, but that didn’t mean the islanders didn’t understand the better part of valor as well. Without any griping, his men gathered up their arrows. They could not carry the braziers with them, but one man lit a torch—and single torch to last them their charge to the castle. The large man Theon had signaled out lifted Bran and carried him in his arms. Theon was struck by the image, the memory of Hodor carrying Bran in a similar manner. What had become of the big oaf? Had he also died defending this boy? Were they all to die defending this boy?

No, no time for thought. Because as they began their way back to the wall, the sound of shrieking and growling filled the air, and the first wights appeared, bottlenecked at the gate. Theon had seen the one Jon had brought to the summit. That one alone had frightened him enough. He was unprepared for the terror a mass of them could bring. How _could_ one be prepared for such a thing? They moved like rabid animals. No, something even more unnatural. Like a child’s puppet on a string.

The first wave managed to break through the bottleneck, and then there was no time for thought. Instinct took over. Theon nocked an arrow and fired; his men followed suit.

Arrow tips slammed into rotted flesh, taking eyes, throats, chests…blows that would fell a living man but only slowed the things that continued to charge them. It was a lucky shot that managed to remain lit and set the wight ablaze. Most extinguished as they hit flesh. The newer the dead body, the less likely the flames were to take. And for every wight that did go down in fire, another rushed forward, howling, unheeding of its injuries.

“Aim for their feet!” Theon cried. “Sweep their legs out from under them!” They would still claw their way along using their arms, but it would slow them down, at least.

The noise rose to a fever pitch as the band pushed their way forward, the cries of the dead and living alike mingling together. A dragon’s roar rent the sky, and the very air itself was alight with a hellish glow. The flames swept the smell of burning flesh over him. Theon fought back memories—two small bodies, burned and strung up—because memories were thinking, and he could. Not. Think right now.

He pulled his bow taut for another shot, pausing just long enough to light the tip in the guttering flame of the torch. A soft gasp drew his attention back to Bran, panicked that his charge had been hurt, that he had failed to protect the boy, another promise broken. But Bran seemed unhurt. His eyes were focused ahead, staring at a wight, larger than the others, lurching through the crowd of them. A giant? Jon had said the Others had giants. The wind shifted, the light flared on the giant’s face, and Theon’s bow arm quivered.

Hodor came barreling at them, tearing through the other wights with ease.

Theon didn’t think. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t afford to think.

He forced his arm steady, pulled back on the bow’s string, and loosed his flaming arrow right between the giant’s eyes. Miraculously, the flame took. Hodor fell and did not get back up as he began to burn.

Over the howling, the screaming, the roaring of the dragons and fire, Theon heard a small sound escape Bran’s throat. Just the tiniest sound of what might have been a whimper.

So, there _was_ a human in there after all.

But in an instant it was gone, and Bran’s face had returned to stone. He lifted his head, like a dog scenting an animal. “Theon.”

Theon came to his side while the Ironborn continued to clear what path they could through the mayhem. He had to lean in close to hear.

“One of them is here.”

“One of who?” Theon demanded, wishing the boy could perhaps drop the cryptic remarks given the severity of the situation.

“One of the Night King’s generals.”

“Is that…good or bad?” Perhaps there was hope for their original plan yet.

Bran swung his head around. “He’s not here for me.”

“You can tell that?”

Bran didn’t answer. “He’s here to add our fallen numbers to their army. He’s raising the dead in Winterfell as we speak,” Bran continued. He reached out and gripped Theon’s arm. “And not just those on the battlefield.”

“What are you—?” Theon broke off. His eyes widened as he realized what Bran meant. The dead in Winterfell. “What about the crypts?” In all his years at Winterfell, he’d been down there only a handful of times, looking upon the stone faces of long-dead Starks. It had always made him uneasy, even as a child. There were children down there now, and women.

And Sansa.

Bran didn’t answer.

Theon snapped up. “Keep moving!” he hollered, though his men needed no prompting on that front. They had to be keenly aware, as he was, that their quivers were growing lighter, and that their torch would last even shorter than their arrows. “Get Lord Stark to the tunnels. Take any of the living you come across with you.” He paused and turned to Bran. “You know the way? To the tunnels?”

“Of course.”

“Where are _you_ going?” the man carrying Bran demanded.

“To the crypts.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was King’s Landing all over again, that night the men had fought to hold back Stannis Baratheon’s forces while Sansa and the other women had huddled together in the Red Keep, praying for the Mother’s mercy. She’d been a girl then, on her first moon blood; she was a woman now, and had seen and endured much since then, but to be huddled again with the women, the children, the old men, those who couldn’t fight—it brought back the child’s fear.

Sansa clutched the dagger Arya had given her. It gave her no comfort. She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, the smell of murk and dust of the crypts. She remembered Cersei the night of the siege, how the Queen had numbed her own terror with wine, with biting quips and cruel remarks. How sad she seemed, as Sansa looked back on it.

The sounds of fighting and men dying filtered down through the ancient stones and mingled with the heavy, terrified breathing of the women. Somewhere, a child began to cry. Sansa looked out at the pale faces, hidden in shadow, wide eyes trained towards the ceiling or towards the vaulted doors. Hands clutching knees, fistfuls of clothing, anything to feel less helpless. They were shifting, restlessly, swaying back and forth. They needed something.

“In times of trouble,” she said, and her own voice seemed to boom back at her, overly loud, “my mother used to seek the comfort of the gods.” She felt their eyes on her. Hanging onto her words, looking for something. “Perhaps that’s what we need,” she continued, holding her head high, exactly the way the little bird in King’s Landing hadn’t. “Let us pray.”

Tyrion looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

She ignored him and clasped her hands together. “Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray.” She looked out, saw many bewildered faces looking back at her. There was not a sound in the crypts, save the baby’s fussing. She closed her eyes and continued. “Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day.”

Tentatively, a few women also clasped their hands together, their voices mumbled as they joined her for the next tuneless line of the song.

Gradually, a few more joined in. “Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray.”

Sansa cast her eyes to those who held back. “Whichever gods you pray to,” she said, “perhaps a prayer will let them know we are still here, fighting for the living.”

One of the old men got down on his knees with some difficulty. His lips moved without making sound—or perhaps simply too quiet to hear. He was a Wintefell man, likely praying to the Old Gods. After her reunion with Bran, and the things he’d told her about the three-eyed raven and the children of the forest, she wasn’t sure if the Old Gods had ever been the sort to listen to prayers. They were simultaneously less real and more real than the Seven, though, whom she wasn’t entirely sure she even believed in anymore, despite continuing with her prayer.

“Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.”

The childish words meant nothing, but they didn’t need to mean anything. Soon, two dozen voices mingled together, words piling on top of each other, indecipherable except to the utterer. Dozens more had their heads bowed, hands clasped. Even Tyrion, she noted, had his eyes trained on the ground in silent thought.

A strange energy took hold of them. The excited thrumming from earlier persisted, but now in a steady rhythm—the terror cresting and ebbing again to the cadence of their voices. Fear became manageable. Fear would not take them.

Sansa breathed, and filled her lungs with a deep, musty chill.

When she released it, everything had became very still. The sounds of fighting all around them died, leaving their prayers echoing harshly off the walls. Everyone stopped. Looked around. Held their breaths. Was it over? Had they won? Was the Long Night over?

Sansa looked to the door, waiting for the knock, the voice to tell them to come out, that all was safe.

The knock didn’t come from the door, though. It came from her left. A sharp thump that startled her and threw dust up into the air. And then again, and the statue of Lyanna Stark shuddered.

Sansa drew back as the third thump knocked the statue over. It fell where she had been standing and shattered on the floor. Lyanna’s stone head rolled across the ground as the tomb itself crumbled outwards. A skeletal hand burst forth. Sansa screamed. All around her, men, women, and children screamed too as more skeletal figures began to burrow through the very walls themselves.

Her aunt Lyanna pulled her way out of her crypt. Whatever beauty she’d been in life, in death she was like the rest of them—a rotted husk. And she grabbed viciously at Sansa, howling like an animal.

Sansa recoiled, but another hand swiped at her. Another Stark—her uncle, Brandon—rising from his tomb, flesh charred brittle and black. She spun and ran. Though there was nowhere for them to run _to_. Nowhere to hide. Hands grabbed after her, ripping, clawing. _His_ hands, all over her body. Tearing into her.

A new smell filled the air. Rotting flesh and fresh blood. Sansa couldn’t hear the screams of the dying over her own.

A loud bang filled the air, and despite her terror—despite the fact that she had no time for distractions—she whirled to see the doors of the crypt cave inwards, as if under a great strain. They were outside now, trying to force their way in. There was no escape. Gods, they were trapped, they were…

The bang came again, and the doors broke inwards with the sound of shattering wood. Sansa saw figures silhouetted against the light of torches. Torches! The dead didn’t use torches!

A dozen men in armor streamed in, screaming their war cries, swords and clubs and axes swinging. Heading them was a man she had seen before the battle but had not had the opportunity—nor wherewithal, if she were being honest—to approach. Sandor Clegane, the Hound, living up to his name as he growled fiercely in frustration; the crypts were too closed-in for him to properly swing his sword. He and the men behind him were left hacking awkwardly at the attacking dead.

She startled when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun. “Theon!”

He looked wan, out of breath, his hair plastered wetly to his forehead. He held his bow in his hands like a staff, raising it and surging past her to strike at Brandon Stark. He took the dead man in the neck and sent the wight reeling back into Lyanna. Not enough to stop them, but time for him to grab her hand.

“We have to go.”

He pulled her along the way he had that day, when they’d jumped from the parapets together. Sansa remembered it with crystal clarity, realer than real. In her dreams, sometimes, she couldn’t keep up with him, he let go of her hand, Ramsay was there pulling her back. But his grip now was strong, just as it had been that day. He hadn’t left her. Not when she’d truly needed him.

They burst out into the hallway. Sansa tried to look back, to see if they were being followed—either by survivors or the dead—but Theon didn’t allow her to slow. “The escape tunnels,” he said. “We have to get you…”

He trailed off. His feet stopped moving, so that Sansa almost ran into him from behind. He took a step back. His eyes were locked ahead, where a headless figure in Stark armor was making its way towards them.

Sansa’s breath caught. She knew that armor. “Ser Rodrik.”

Theon took another step back. “Rodrik, I…”

Sansa clutched his arm. “Theon!” she cried.

But he was lost somewhere. Staring. “I’m sorry, I…I never meant…”

“Theon, please!” she begged.

Rodrik’s headless body lumbered at them, soundlessly. Sansa felt the knife in her hand. She clutched it tighter. _Stick them with the pointy end._

With a cry, she ran forward, knife raised. The headless man knew she was there and turned to her. And lunged. Sansa pressed on, eyes closed, though she supposed that was probably not proper knife-fighting etiquette. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway.

Something solid struck her from the side, knocking her back. And in the next instant, when she finally managed to open her eyes, Theon had the dead man on the ground, landing blow after savage blow with his bow.

Sansa rushed forward and grabbed his arm. He startled, turned to look at her. She held out her hand to him.

Their eyes met. Words they didn’t have the luxury of sharing in that moment passed between them.

He nodded, took her hand. Together they ran.


	2. Chapter 2

Breathlessly, they pressed themselves flat against the wall. Theon gestured to Sansa to remain still as he peered around the corner.

There were two ways to the tunnel: the long, winding corridors, where they would be closed-in and left with limited options to flee, or the courtyard, where they would be left open and vulnerable. He didn’t like either one, but two dubious options was leagues better than no options at all.

Behind him, Sansa breathed in sharply through her nose. Her hand tightened on his wrist. “I hear them,” she whispered, and her voice quavered.

She was right. There was a sound just under the chaos of battle behind and all around them. What he’d at first taken to be the erratic pounding of his own pulse now became the distinct sound of footsteps, uneven and unhurried, coming down the corridor. A chorus of low, throaty growls told him they were not living.

Well…that settled the matter of the two options.

Theon renewed his grasp on Sansa’s hand. “When I say,” he said, and he hoped his voice didn’t sound as uncertain as it did to his own ears, “run for the gate.” He pointed across the courtyard. “Don’t stop for anything. Understood?”

Wordlessly, she nodded.

Theon swallowed. “Alright.” He breathed out. The sounds of the approaching wights didn’t give them much time to collect their courage, though. “Go,” he hissed.

They scurried out into the open like frightened mice.

The air was dead. The fighting had not reached this inner courtyard yet. They passed by barrels, stacks of boxes full of weapons. More weapons than they had hands to use them. Weapons were not the issue.

Theon held Sansa’s hand tightly, bow clutched in the other, eyes darting about for any sign of movement. He quickly looked away as they passed by the kennels, with their iron gates gaping open. The kennels, where he’d…

Sansa’s grip abruptly tightened. “Theon,” she breathed.

She became like a dead weight, and he stopped too.

“There’s something in there,” she said, terror seeping into her voice. “Oh Gods, there’s something _in_ there.”

Theon followed her gaze and saw the shapes moving about, shifting. Shadows emerged into the dim light. They weren’t human—or rather, they hadn’t been human in life. But Theon knew them anyway. Had wrapped himself tightly around them on cold nights, trying to warm himself against their living bodies when Ramsay had not seen fit to let him indoors. Their fur was matted, skin clinging against their ribs, but other than that, the cold dryness of the North had preserved them especially well. He could even see the patch of white fur on Kyra’s shoulder.

Ramsay’s dogs drew closer, animals on a hunt. Their eyes glowed an eerie blue as they locked onto their intended prey.

“Theon,” Sansa breathed.

Theon pushed her behind him. “Run,” he whispered. “I’ll hold them off.”

Sansa grabbed at his shoulder. “No. I won’t let you. Not this time. We’ll run together.”

They’d never make it. Theon had seen what the girls did when they caught their prey—and it was always _when_ , never _if_. They were fast and strong, and death had likely only made them faster and stronger. He only hoped that he could hold both of them off long enough, because if one went for him and the other for Sansa…

A growl whispered to them from the depths of the kennels. A chill ran along Theon’s skin, raising every hair on his body to stand on end. He felt an animalistic panic as a third figure melted out of the shadows. Light washed over a face—what was left of it—and a single blue eye stared at them, the hue a shade brighter than it had been in life. This thing, with its face half gone, one arm dangling uselessly out of its socket, limping along on mangled legs, had likewise never been human—not truly.

The fear came back to him as easily as swimming, as easily as firing an arrow. His tongue moved on its own. “ _Reek, weak, meek, shriek_ …” Ramsay…oh, Ramsay would be so angry that Reek had killed his mistress and stolen his bride.

Behind him, a sob escaped Sansa’s throat, and she lurched around him. “No!” she bellowed at the dead thing lurching towards them. “You’re dead! I killed you! You’re dead, and I won’t let you hurt us anymore!” And then she screamed at him, something animalistic, without words, just an unending and raw anger.

It stirred Theon. He’d never been an _angry_ person. Resentful, yes. Frightened, yes. But anger was something he’d never allowed himself—not when they’d taken him from Pyke, not when he’d taken Winterfell from them, not during his time with Ramsay. But now, seeing that thing— _rotted meat_ —shamble its way out of its grave, he felt a fire take hold in his belly.

Ramsay and the girls continued forward, and Sansa was still yelling. And Theon made himself move forward. It wasn’t instinct. In fact, every instinct was telling him to run. But that would mean leaving Sansa to Ramsay and the dogs, just like he’d left Yara. It was like fighting a physical person, forcing himself to move. It was Reek, he realized, who lived on in his mind and in his skin and the thousands of marks Ramsay had left on his body. Reek was a part of him now, something he would never be rid of, no more than the scars carved into his flesh. But he’d fired a bow again, even with his missing fingers, and he’d saved his sister and he’d come North to fight for the living, and if he could do all of that, maybe he could _be_ Theon Greyjoy again, even with Reek still there.

A cry rose from his throat to join Sansa’s, and he launched himself at Ramsay. Tackled the walking husk and knocked it to the ground. It fought against him, clawing, teeth gnashing, but Theon held on. “I am Theon Greyjoy!”

Sharp teeth sank into his arms, and he knew the dogs were on them. They tore into him, ripping, shaking him, the way he’d seen them do to animals…and people. Kyra had his forearm, Violet had his shoulder, and they pulled him viciously between them like the last bit of meat to fall from the table. Still, Theon held onto Ramsay.

“I am Theon Greyjoy!” he cried out again. “Prince of the Iron Islands! Son of Balon Greyjoy! What is dead may never die!”

They continued to pull and tear, but he was used to it. Used to the feeling of being rent apart. They could tear him limb from limb, so long as their attention was on him and not on Sansa.

“Theon!”

His gritted his teeth against the pain. “Run!”

“No.”

Kyra latched onto his arm, digging deep with her teeth, and he didn’t know how much longer he could physically hold on. Before they ripped him to shreds.

“I said run!” He let loose another bestial cry. And to his confusion, it seemed echo back at him through a dozen different voices.

Kyra released her hold on him, and he heard her body slump to the ground with a dull thump. Theon chanced a glance up to see a flaming arrow protruding from her eye. There was screaming all around, not coming from him—or, not coming _just_ from him.

He barely had time to register this fact before a great force clashed into Violet, knocking her off as well. The larger figure grappled with the dog, and Theon continued to hold Ramsay, even as the body struggled and snarled in his grasp. He felt a hand tugging on his shoulder, but he couldn’t let up. Sansa. Had Sansa run? Was she safe?

“Theon!” her voice was in his ear.

He looked up to see her standing over him, pulling him up just in time to miss the sword that swung down at him. It took off what remained of Ramsay’s head with one blow. Theon jumped back, startled at the visage of Sandor Clegane grimacing at him with his own horribly maimed face.

“Gonna lie there all day, you bloody twat?” the Hound growled. “Or maybe you’re _trying_ to get yourself killed.”

The hand on his shoulder tugged again, and he realized it was Sansa urging him to get up. He did, though he was shaking so hard he had to lean on her. She helped him. She was shaking too. Perhaps it was to steady herself that she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close. Her breath ghosted against his neck. “Don’t ever do that again,” she whispered. “Don’t ever try to make me leave you.”

Theon drew in a shuddering breath. In the cold, dry air, the smell of her was stronger than the rot of death. He hugged her back, though he had trouble moving his right arm. Strangely, it didn’t hurt. Nothing did. He couldn’t feel anything but the warmth of Sansa’s skin and her hair brushing against his face.

An angry roar pulled them from their moment. “What’s wrong with you cunts?” The Hound stood, flicking his sword towards the men in Stark armor and the survivors from the crypts scuttling across the courtyard. Bits of flesh and gore flew from his blade. “Get moving!”

They did, now with a different sort of hound on their heels.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa knew where the escape tunnels were, of course, though she’d never had need of them before. Nobody had, not in a long time, judging from the dust still thick in the air from where the rug had been pulled back to reveal the trapdoor underneath.

A small but steady stream of men and women trickled down the ancient steps, built from the very stones that made the foundation of Winterfell, into the darkness below. Sansa spotted Varys, Tyrion, and Missandei among the frightened faces.

Theon was still leaning heavily on her but broke away to grab a man in Ironborn armor. “Where’s Lord Stark?”

 The man’s mouth flapped a moment, clearly caught by surprise, before he managed to jerk his head towards the trapdoor. “Erik’s got him, m’lord.”

Theon sighed and patted the man’s shoulder before moving back to Sansa. His gaze was intense, with a resolve burning in his eyes that frightened her. “Go,” he said.

She gripped his uninjured hand. “You’re coming _with_ me, of course?”

He breathed out through his nose.

“Theon,” she said, and was amazed at how like her mother she sounded, the way she had used to scold her children. “You promised you wouldn’t try to make me leave you again.”

“I have to stay and fight,” he said. “I have to buy as much time for us to escape as I can.”

Us. He didn’t even include himself in “us.”

“You can’t even lift your sword arm,” she said.

He looked startled. Perhaps he hadn’t thought she’d noticed the blood soaking his sleeve, the deep gashes she could see through the tears in the fabric, the way he held the arm close to his body.

“Theon, please,” she begged. “I need you.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

She felt something catch in her throat as well. “You once said you would die for me—g-getting me to the Wall.”

He inhaled sharply and grasped her hand back. “I still would.”

“But that’s not what I want from you.” She placed her other hand against his cheek. Her glove was like armor, keeping her from feeling his skin, but he could feel her, leaning into her touch. It broke her heart to think he honestly believed his life was the only thing he had to offer her. “Please, Theon. Don’t give your life to _them_. I need you more.”

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

As a girl, she’d never been able to tell what he was thinking, what was going on behind those eyes and that smug grin. But somewhere along the way, he’d become an open book to her. Emotions and thoughts flitted across his face, and she could read every one. Knew the exact moment when he’d made his decision.

“Alright, my lady.”

He allowed her to take his hand and lead him down the steps, and they joined their numbers to the escapees of Winterfell.

 

***

 

An old woman sat to catch her breath. Sansa grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. “We have to keep moving,” she urged.

“They need to rest,” Tyrion, at her side, said.

Did he think she didn’t know that? She needed to rest too. _Theon_ needed to rest. He was injured, like many of the retreating soldiers. But they didn’t have time to lick their wounds. Behind them, the eerie glow of dragon fire illuminated the stark shape of Winterfell. They had bought a few hours for themselves, at best, by fleeing through the tunnels. Now they were out in the open, it wasn’t safe to stop, not even for a moment.

She felt a hand on her arm and started. Tyrion was looking at her with that strange mix of pity and understanding he’d mastered as of late. Or perhaps it had always been there and she’d simply never given him the benefit of the doubt. “I know you’re worried about the survivors, but if you push them too hard, there won’t _be_ any survivors.”

 _If I don’t push them hard enough, there won’t be any survivors either_ , she thought, but relented with a defeated nod. “Half an hour to rest!” she called out.

All around her, people sank to their knees with relieved groans. In the distance, the fire continued to burn.

“Thank you,” Tyrion sighed, releasing his hold on her arm. “I’ll tell the soldiers to sound the alarm if we need to move quickly. In the meantime, perhaps you should take the opportunity to rest as well.”

Never. Even if she could somehow miraculously calm her nerves enough to rest, she would never allow it.

She nodded anyway and went to find Theon, being helped along by one of his men. And there she found Bran, who’d been set down on a fallen tree while the man who’d carried him for the past three miles stretched out his arms. Sansa took Theon from the Ironborn soldier and bid him take a seat on the same tree. She began rolling up his sleeve.

“There are others who are more badly wounded,” he protested.

And no proper supplies to treat them, but Sansa pushed that morbid thought from her mind. Likely they would need to leave some of the most badly wounded behind. It was a thought that roiled her stomach. She would save them all if she could, but the truth of the matter was, she simply couldn’t.

“Hush,” she said to Theon. It was hard to make out the extent of his wounds in the dark, but the blood running down his arm was still fresh and still coming strong. She didn’t know much about healing, but she knew she needed to stop the bleeding. She began ripping strips from her cloak for bandaging.

“Your nice cloak,” Theon protested.

“What does it matter if it’s nice? You’re more important.”

“You may need it later,” Theon said in a tiny voice. “When it’s cold.”

It was already cold. She’d started to sweat during their march, and now they weren’t moving, the cold cut even more violently into her.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Right now we—”

A cry of alarm rose from the rear of the party, where most of the remaining soldiers had hung back to shepherd the people along. Sansa’s head bolted up. So soon? They’d just stopped. She knew they should have kept moving. They should have—

The sound of leathery wings filled the air, along with a chorus of gasps and cries. Sansa looked up as the dark shapes of the two dragons passed by overhead, circling as they searched for somewhere to land, eventually alighting in an open stretch of snowy earth. Jon and the Dragon Queen dismounted, and Sansa stood as they made their way over.

Jon looked defeated, strands of hair falling loose in his face, but immense relief came over his features as his eyes met Sansa’s. He ran the rest of the way to her and pulled her into a tight hug. “You’re safe,” he breathed. He released her and hugged Bran as well, before standing and looking around, obviously searching for someone. “What of Arya?”

“We haven’t taken stock yet,” Sansa answered. They didn’t even know how many had survived, let alone who. “But Arya’s escaped from worse.” She had to believe that. That Arya had defied death, as she always did.

Jon’s shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his messy hair. “Then it’s true. We’ve lost.”

“We’ve lost the battle.” It was Daenerys, her voice roiling with anger as she strode towards them. “But a single battle is not a war.”

“We can’t win,” Bran spoke up, causing all eyes to go to him. He didn’t flinch at all. “Not with our numbers before, and not with our numbers now.”

“Where is the Night King?” Jon asked.

“Heading south,” was all Bran answered.

Sansa knelt in front of him so that they were eye-to-eye. He looked at her without really seeing, even when she grasped his face between her gloved hands. “Has he taken White Harbor yet?”

“No.”

“Good.” She stood. “Then that’s where we’re going.” She turned to Jon and the Dragon Queen. “Have the remaining men cover our retreat.” She flicked her eyes to the dragons, one of whom was licking a wound on its side. “Use them as well. One of you should fly to White Harbor and let them know we’ll be arriving. You should take Bran with you. And Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys. And any others you can fit. How many people _can_ you fit on a dragon? Five? Six? I’ll stay here with the rest.”

“Sansa…” Jon began.

She realized she was babbling and stopped. And looked at him.

He stared back, his brow pinched. “White Harbor’s a long way, especially on foot. We don’t have horses or carriages. Or food. They won’t make it.”

“They won’t make it if we stay here either,” she said simply.

“Sansa.”

She whipped her head around as Theon stood, cradling his arm against his side. He lifted his good hand, as if to touch her—perhaps lay it on her shoulder or brush her face. In the end, though, he let it drop with a defeated look.

“You need to go with them.”

“I can’t do that. I need to stay here. With them.” _With you_. “They need someone on the ground to lead them.”

“I’ll do it, then,” Theon said. “I…” He paused to swallow. “I’m not much of a leader, but I can relay your order, m’lady. I can…run a tight ship.”

Sansa shook her head. “Theon.”

“Take one of the dragons to White Harbor,” he continued, “and the other to the Iron Islands, to inform my sister. We can retreat there. The dead can’t swim.”

They didn’t even know if that was true.

“Yara will send ships,” Theon said.

From the Iron Islands to White Harbor? That would take too long.

“You can wait for us at Pyke. You’ll be safe there.”

“I’m not interested in being ‘safe.’” Which was a lie. She just wanted to be somewhere safe, with people she trusted—and those were precious few right now. But what she _wanted_ had never been a part of this. “I’m not abandoning my subjects.” _I’m not abandoning you._

Jon and Daenerys exchanged looks. They obviously had some thoughts of their own, but this was her decision, for herself.

She reached out and took Theon’s good hand. For a second, Theon looked startled and almost pulled away, his uncertain eyes turning to Jon. As if Jon had any place to disapprove of her. She held firm, to let him know that he could pull free if he wanted, but if his fear was of being somehow unworthy in anyone’s eyes, then it was an unfounded fear. _You’re worthy_.

She’d grown quite good at disguising her thoughts—the exact opposite of Theon, in many regards—but he must have read this one. Or sensed it. Or perhaps she’d dropped her defenses just long enough to let him in and see what was there, under her armor.

His hand relaxed into hers, even gripped back, and he managed a small smile.

“Whatever happens next,” she said, “we’ll face it together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming back for Chapter 2. I don't currently have plans to continue this, since it's already turned into much more of a rewrite/fix-it than I intended, but I may find the inspiration farther down the road for another chapter or two.


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